


archival theft

by caeliste (fictitiousregrets)



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 12:03:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13053615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictitiousregrets/pseuds/caeliste
Summary: What if Lem and Devar stole that Black Slacks shirt while they were both still in the Archives and also maybe held hands and kissed because they were definitely in love?





	archival theft

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aubades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aubades/gifts).



> happy birthday dora!! <3 remember after we listened to c/w 00, we started talking about wih and then you mentioned you loved lem/devar, and then i wouldn't tell you the thought i got? this was the thought.

There was a slight hissing noise as the heat came on in Lem’s small room in the Archives. He’d sent the form in ages ago, which meant that it probably _finally_ processed. Of course, it wasn’t that cold anymore, so as Lem and Devar laid on the floor, staring at the ceiling, the heat permeating the room steadily caressed the edge of stifling.

    “Man,” Devar huffed, “fuck this. I thought I did real good on that final.”

    Lem hummed a half-baked melody, watching the ceiling turn three different colors at once. “Ah, no use worrying about it now,” he said cheerfully. “There’ll be other exams, Devar.”

    “I’m bummed, man.” Devar rolled over onto his stomach, propping his elbows up and putting his chin in his hands. Lem glanced over at him; he did indeed look pretty bummed. “My pops is gonna freak.”

    “You don’t have to tell him,” Lem reasoned. “Hasn’t he got other things on his plate? He’ll probably forget.”

    Devar sighed. “Yeah, I guess.” Lem watched a bead of sweat drip slowly down Devar’s temple. It was far too hot in here.

    “You wanna go somewhere?” he asked, watching Devar steadily. Wondering how he would take the question. Wondering if maybe Devar felt that… pull. Lem felt it. It was entirely too frustrating to be left alone for long.

    Devar met his eyes finally and tilted his head a fraction. “Depends. Where you taking me?”

    “I don’t know,” Lem responded, keeping his eyes on Devar’s; as much as he wanted to look away, he really couldn’t. Something about that look was telling him not to break the spell, like the most tenuous pattern magic. If only they could complete the pattern, something could— _happen_. If Lem could run his fingers along Devar’s well-kempt fade, that would be another component of the pattern.

    “You ever think about taking one of those cool patterned shirts?” Devar asked abruptly, and Lem blinked in surprise.

    He thought it over. “You mean the bright painted ones?”

    “Yeah, man. Haven’t you ever thought about how cool those would look?”

    A bubble of Devar-related nervousness danced along Lem’s lungs, and he laughed. “No, Devar. I haven’t.”

    “Let’s do it,” Devar said, leaning in close, and for a moment, Lem felt his heart stop. “Let’s take one. It's at Lot 32, that's not too far away.”

    “Are you serious?” Lem asked, laughing again. “Stealing from the Archives is… _shit_. We would be in so much trouble, Devar.”

    Devar smirked. “Not if we don’t get caught.”

    Lem closed his eyes and wished he still had that pipe weed. He felt Devar watching him. Waiting. He made Devar wait just a little longer, and then opened his eyes. “Okay,” he said, his tone a breezy yet tired acquiescence, and got up. “Let’s go.” He heard Devar scramble to get up behind him as he opened his door.

    “Wait, wait, wait, Lem! Lem! We don’t have a _plan_ , what are you doing?” Devar caught up to him and grabbed him by the elbow in the hallway outside Lem’s room. “Man, we cannot just go in there without knowing what the security’s like!”

    Lem turned to look at him. Devar had this look on his face that was at once exhilarated and terrified--irresistible. Somehow Lem had to resist. He sighed. “Alright. What do you suggest, Devar?”

    Devar paused, his hand still on Lem’s elbow. Lem took the moment to admire the line of his jaw, the furrow of his brow as he thought. “Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll go on ahead like I’m just running an errand and scout it out.”

    “Why can’t I do it?” Lem asked, a little offended.

    “Lem,” Devar said, leveling a look at him before deliberately taking his hand off of Lem’s elbow. “You gotta be kidding me, man. You’d be so obvious. Look at you, you’re like a tree.” Lem raised an eyebrow, but Devar crossed his arms. “Plus, you’re sun-high right now. You’d crash right in there like a motherfucker, you know that.”

    He was right. Lem didn’t want to admit it, but he was right. “Fine,” he said, and pressed his back against the wall outside his room, sinking down to the floor with his knees to his chest. “Just, you know. Give me a shake when you get back.”

    Devar paused, shifting his weight from leg to leg, looking awkward. Finally, he turned and shoved his hands in his pockets, whistling as he walked away. Lem gazed at him as he went, watching the way he moved, wondering what it would feel like to have that body beneath his hands.

    It was okay. Devar couldn’t see the look on his face, the look he knew he got when he thought about this. Lem sighed into the air, and a passing archivist gave him a strange look, but nothing more. That was one of the best things about the archives; they were so strange that if you were strange, no one would really remark on it. That was pattern magic.

    In a way, that was him and Devar too. Little things shifted in little ways to make magic. The indescribable, inexplicable spark of life and lust between them, for the strangest reasons. It took late night study sessions, small confessions, and that beautiful smirk. Devar was a thief, and his most cunning heist had been the theft of Lem King’s heart.

    “Lem. Lem. Hey.” Devar was snapping his fingers in front of Lem’s face, and he looked up, bleary-eyed. “We gotta go, man.” He was grinning, a beautiful grin that ignited the blood in Lem’s veins.

    “O-okay,” Lem said, and got up slowly, stretching his stiff muscles, wincing as he heard a few joints pop and crack. The high had worn off long ago, but Lem saw a different kind of high on Devar’s face. He had a material desire, a deep wish, and Lem wanted more than anything to help make that happen.

    “Security’s kinda lax around Lot 32,” Devar whispered as they walked down the hall, sticking close to Lem. “I didn’t see a lot of guards around, but I saw that cat Morbash around, so we gotta be careful. You with me?”

    “I’m with you,” Lem replied, glancing down at Devar. A few moments passed, and then Devar’s body language shifted; he became more tense.

    “Act natural,” Devar said quietly. “Laugh like I just said something funny.”

    Lem laughed on instinct—it _was_ funny that Devar was being so serious about this. Two guards passed by and didn’t even pay them any mind as they went, but after they passed, Lem glanced back and saw one shake her head. They kept going a little longer, passing by other lots as they went, and then Lem heard Devar let out a relieved exhale.

    “Got ‘em,” Devar said, and flashed a set of keys in his palm.

    Lem couldn’t help grinning—the smile on Devar’s face was too good. “Where did you get that?”

    “Let’s just say you’re a distracting person.” Devar didn’t elaborate, and Lem didn’t push the issue. They walked a little longer, and then Devar stopped. Lem had to turn back to meet him.

    Lot 32 looked like all the other ones, to the point where Lem was starting to doubt Devar’s intel. “Are you sure this is it?” he asked, a little skeptical.

    “Relax, man. My pops talked about this place a bunch, it’s fine. Keep a lookout while I try these keys, will you?” Devar knelt and began testing the keys to unlock the door.

    Lem had never been a lookout before. He didn’t really know what to look out for, but he guessed it was footsteps, or something? Maybe a shadow, since the halls were lit?

    He watched for about a minute. Every single flicker, every echo had Lem on edge, ready to warn Devar. He was jumpy, uncertain that this was even going to work. They were gonna get caught. They were gonna get caught and kicked out of the Archives, or worse, they were gonna be tortured in the Archives and then killed, and Lem would never get to kiss Devar, and

    “Got it,” Devar said. Lem heard the audible relief in his voice. “Lem, let’s go.”

    “Wait, Devar—” Lem saw a hand suddenly appear around the corner, but there was nowhere to hide.

    Devar opened the door and grabbed Lem’s hand, pulling him inside. He pushed the door closed, and they were in a dark room. Voices grew a little louder outside the door. Lem didn’t let Devar’s hand go, and neither did Devar, who actually tightened his grip a little.

    The door opened with a gentle creak, and Lem pressed Devar into the nearest corner of the room, behind some boxes, hands braced against the wall, his body barricading Devar into it as if arrows would come flying at them from all angles and Lem didn’t want Devar to get shot.

    Morbash’s voice rang through the expansive room, and Devar grabbed the front of Lem’s shirt, terrified. Lem slowly lowered himself to shelter Devar, resting his forearms on the wall instead of his hands.

    Devar’s breath came quick and slightly scared, and Lem felt his own heart pounding, willing himself not to look behind him. Maybe if he didn’t look, Morbash wouldn’t see them. Maybe if they didn’t move…

    Lem felt Devar shift beneath him, and his attention was drawn to Devar instead: the way he looked up, making eye contact, his gaze scared and desperate at once; the contradictory calm slide of his hand up Lem’s chest until it hooked around his neck, fingers playing some untenable rhythm on the nape of his neck; the hitch of his breath as he slowly surged up to let his mouth converge with Lem’s, and then the slow and deliberate drowning that followed, the feeling of Devar in his arms, against his lips, a place he had wanted to be for so long, an experience he had only ever dreamed about, waking up messy for too many mornings.

    Morbash’s voice got closer, and Lem focused instead on the way Devar’s tongue trailed against the roof of his mouth, delicate and searching. The light slipped away first, and then Morbash’s voice, and then the door clicked shut behind them. Lem braced himself for Devar to immediately pull away, their potential excuse for being in the lot expiring, but Devar only pulled himself closer.

    As Devar kissed him, Lem could only cling to the spark of heat in his chest, to the way Devar’s other hand was steadily climbing beneath his shirt, to the soft press of his lips against Lem’s, the heat of his breath. Lem pulled away a fraction, opened his eyes, lips still brushing against Devar’s, and said, “Wait.”

    “Why?” Devar asked, his lashes fluttering as he opened his eyes too, and Lem could see worry swimming in them. He silenced it with another kiss, shorter, chaste.

    Lem kissed Devar again, brief. “We’ve got something to do, don’t we?”

    “Oh, _shit_ ,” Devar said, and Lem stepped back so that he could search the crystal clear drawers lining the walls of Lot 32. He immediately missed Devar’s warmth, his closeness, but trailed behind as Devar scanned the drawers.

    Devar pointed to one of the drawers, and then he turned around to face the bookcase. Lem glanced at it and then Devar, and wanted to kiss him again. Devar glanced over at Lem, and Lem saw the hunger in his eyes, a swift thrill traveling up his spine. Devar tore his gaze away and instead turned his attention to the setup in front of him.

    “I know this pattern,” he said softly. “My pops does this kind of pattern magic.” Lem felt a moment of blooming pride as he watched Devar pull a book here, a book there. He replaced one with another on the shelf, placed one of the books on a chair nearby, shifted a jump rope two inches to the left. Lem turned back to look at the crystal drawers.

    “I think… that oughta do it.” As Devar placed the last book—Lem heard the soft thump of a book laid on the floor—the drawer clicked open.

    Lem turned around and took Devar’s face in both of his hands, kissing him deeply. Devar put his hands over Lem’s, kissing back. Lem let him go and said, “That was incredible, Devar.”

    “I… Thanks,” Devar said breathlessly. Lem straightened his vest and then worried the hem of his shirt as Devar shook his head and then grabbed the shirt.

    It was a brilliant, vivid shirt, its colors evoking a forgotten world—Lem had never seen any piece of clothing this alive before. The archives were full of wonders… he studied Devar’s face. They were full of wonders.

    Devar folded the shirt up and then tucked it between his shirt and pants, tucking the shirt he was wearing into his pants. He nodded at Lem, who nodded back and opened the door.

    Morbash stood outside, and Lem froze.

    “Lem King,” he said softly.

    “Hi, Morbash,” Lem said, trying to sound innocent. He hoped it was loud enough for Devar to hear so he could hide.

    “What… are you doing in Lot 32?”

    Lem instinctively grabbed the back of his neck, looking sheepish. He tried to scramble for a lie. “Well… well, uh, you know. I get lost? The archives are big, and I get lost, sometimes. Um. I’m sorry, Morbash.”

    “Hm. Come with me. While you’re _getting lost_ , we can have a chat about what your future prospects.”

    Lem tried not to look back. At least he could get Morbash away from Devar.

  


In the stifling heat of Lem’s room, Devar kissed him freely, the filched shirt laying quietly on the desk.

    “You took the fall for me,” Devar said between kisses.

    “Ah,” Lem said, immediately trying to deflect. “It’s fine. You got what you wanted, yeah?”

    Devar grinned. “Yeah. I did.”

**Author's Note:**

> please go wish dora a happy birthday [@thedorabot](https://twitter.com/thedorabot) on twitter!
> 
> find me on twitter [@caeliste](https://twitter.com/caeliste).


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